


No Greater Love

by Roselightfairy



Series: Finding a Voice [13]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alma is aromantic and pansexual and all aspects of those labels are important, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Love and lust are not the same thing, One Night Stands, Pining, Shades of attraction, Unrequited, background Legolas/Gimli, extreme self-indulgence (you'll know it when you see it)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22375453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: It is a well-established fact that Alma daughter of Aldis is the most sought-after dwarf in Aglarond.It is equally well established that for all she might take bed-partners, she will have no love, no matter who – and woe unto the poor fool who tries.This does not, of course, hinder many poor fools from trying.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Finding a Voice [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/939402
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31
Collections: Genprompt Bingo Round 17





	No Greater Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I’ve been wanting to write for a long time, but have always kind of known would be very difficult to write. Basically, the fanon about dwarves’ customs when it comes to love and sexuality is very interesting to me, and I love the idea that in the culture, casual sex without love is a pretty common occurrence. I also like the idea of dwarves who might be devoted to their craft rather than to a partner, but not be averse to sexual encounters – and it struck me quite awhile ago that my OC Alma is one of those.
> 
> However, it also struck me that Alma is a BABE among the dwarves of Aglarond, and that it might be pretty common for her to have dalliances with other dwarves whose feelings run deeper than her own – and to have no idea that that’s the case. I leave it up to the reader to determine if any of her partners described in this story is in capital-L Love with her, but I also think there are different shades of feeling, and I wanted to explore those a bit.
> 
> A few warnings: this story contains some poorly-negotiated one-night stands that result in some hurt feelings; an ongoing sexual partnership with a substantial age difference (which I think is not as big a thing in dwarf culture as it is in ours, but I still wanted to warn for it just in case that’s a squick); and some accidental callousness. The last couple of vignettes also take as background my story [To the Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786288), so there’s some context that would probably make more sense if you’ve read that story.
> 
> Anyway, after all those extensive warnings: I have had a LOT of fun exploring Alma a little bit, and I really hope you enjoy reading this.

"Alma," said Gimli seriously, staring at her with narrowed eyes. "I have a very important assignment for you."

It was an expression and a sentiment that might have sounded intimidating to anyone else, especially from the lord of Aglarond, but Alma had been working closely under Gimli son of Gloin for nearly ten years now, and knew him as well as she knew her own family – perhaps better. She could see the gleam of humor in his eyes, the relaxed set of his shoulders that indicated he was nowhere near as serious as he claimed.

So she made no effort even to feign solemnity. "Do you indeed?" she said with the cheek he had so often laughingly lamented. "Pray tell me, then, my lord."

"Impudence," he said, shaking his head, and she grinned at the reminder that her use of his title was now a sign of impertinence rather than deference. "Ah, well, I suppose you have already outgrown your respect for your elders."

He could play this game as well as she, and often win it. Indeed, she cracked first tonight, laughing and ceding victory to him. "Very well, then, Gimli. Tell me this very serious assignment."

He smiled in truth at last and clapped her on the shoulder. "Enjoy yourself tonight," he said. "I know this project is nearly as dear to you as it is to me, but you have put more effort than near anyone into its success. You deserve to taste some of the rewards at a celebration in your honor."

Tonight. Alma smiled broader at the thought. Tonight was the celebration of her seventy-fifth year, the true age of majority for dwarves. They were counted legally of age by sixty, allowed to take up crafts and apprenticeships and even to marry, but that age was still accounted too young for most dwarves to truly begin their lives – and it was not until seventy-five that they could take up titles. So while Alma had been working as Gimli's second for nearly nine years, it was not until tomorrow that she would be officially named his successor.

(There would be no blood heirs to his line, in any case; her title had been assured since they had begun work in Aglarond – but all the same, it would take on a different resonance now.)

"Will you give me official permission in your toast?" she said slyly.

"Toast!" he sputtered. "I never claimed I would give a toast. I must save my words for tomorrow's ceremony."

"Of course," she said. "Then shall I assume that the source very close to you who let slip your preparation was lying?"

"Source very" – Gimli glared. "Have you been speaking to Legolas?"

Alma only grinned.

"The spirit of elven mischief, that one," Gimli grumbled. "That brings me to my second point, anyway – you are not to spend too much of your time fraternizing with us elder folk tonight. Relax and enjoy yourself with your own age group, for once. Work will be waiting for you tomorrow, if you are so eager to return – but for tonight, you have my official orders to let loose."

* * *

Laín took another swig from her mug of beer and stole another glance up the table at the same time.

"Enough of that," said Rodmund crossly from beside her, pulling the tankard away. She looked down and flushed at the realization that she had drunk from his instead of her own. "Stare at her if you must, but do not swipe from others' drinks."

Laín's face went hot, and she hoped that the torches and crystal lights were low enough to conceal her blush. So much for subtlety. "I was not" –

Rodmund raised an eyebrow.

"Fine, I was staring." She buried her face in her own drink to buy herself a moment to conceal her embarrassment. "But she is radiant tonight and you cannot deny it."

Rodmund shrugged. "She is, but I count myself lucky to have escaped the ensnaring spell." He knocked Laín with his elbow. "I believe any dwarf would be a fool not to notice you, but I also believe” –

“If you are about to call Lord Gimli’s second a fool, Rodmund . . .”

“Peace!” He held up his hands. “That would make me a worse one. She is not a fool, but I do not think she has taken enough interest in any of us to notice one person in particular. Even you, much as it pains me to say it.”

It was a speculation Laín had heard before – that Alma spent little time with her own age-mates because she preferred the company of Lord Gimli and his advisors. And perhaps there was a shred of truth to it – even now she was beaming as Lord Gimli and his elven consort raised their glasses to her, the toast so lost in the general boisterousness of merriment that Laín could not make out the words – but it had not stopped her from hoping.

"No, something is different tonight," she said. "I can feel it."

Even as she watched, Lord Gimli clapped Alma on the shoulder and waved her out towards the dance floor. She turned back to him and said something, and his consort – Lord Legolas of Ithilien, Laín reminded herself – fell over himself laughing. Lord Gimli just scowled and gestured again, more emphatically.

All at once, the music changed: to something bright, loud, and lively, with a beat perfect for dancing. Alma beckoned; Lord Gimli shook his head and gestured down at the table towards the others; and before she knew it Laín was on her feet.

"Come," she said to Rodmund. "Dance with me."

He followed her gaze, and with a long-suffering sigh, stood up and offered her his hand.

After their example, it was quick. They were on the floor scarcely a minute before they were joined by a few more dwarves, then a whole crowd; the dance floor no longer empty but alive with motion. The song was lively, the beat one meant for a circle dance, and the crowd of dwarves quickly resolved into several rings, the dwarves on the outside stomping, clapping, and crossing one foot over the other to the rhythm, sending one dancer after the other into the center for displays of improvisation.

Rodmund moved into the middle of theirs first, his initial reluctance quickly overcome by the desire to show off, and as he began, Laín heard a whoop beside her as a new dwarf settled into the place he had vacated.

She turned to look, and her breath caught in her throat.

Beyond her wildest hopes, Alma daughter of Aldis was dancing _right next to her_ , her eyes sparkling, the light of the torches reflecting off her deep brown skin and the threads of gold in her braids. So close Laín might even touch her if one of them happened to stumble.

Her heart was pounding, but she dared to look over and try a smile . . . and Alma looked straight at her and smiled back.

Thankfully, Rodmund was a good friend. When he re-entered the circle, ceding the floor to the next dancer, he returned to Laín’s other side – and said not a word about her abandoning him for the rest of the evening. All else forgotten, her priorities had narrowed down to one single goal; remain next to Alma at all costs. When the dances changed and the circles shifted, Laín let the motion of her body follow in the wake of Alma's own, winding up on her other side for the next dance. Every time their eyes caught, Alma would smile at her, and Laín’s heart would jolt anew.

Two songs later, the musicians began a tune that required the dancers to find partners. Laín hesitated, not daring to ask, but beyond all her wildest hopes Alma turned to her and offered her hand with a wordless smile.

When her callused palm closed around Laín’s own, Laín wondered if she would swoon. But she held herself together all through the dance, even when Alma's other hand settled on her waist, even when they drew so close together that Laín could feel the shape of Alma's body all against her own.

And then . . . and then that song wound to an end and the next one began, slower and softer, and Alma made no move to seek another partner but kept her arms clasped at Laín’s waist, drawing her forehead close enough to Laín’s that they were nearly touching, close enough to kiss . . .

Vaguely, Laín registered the other dancers around them: Rodmund, who it seemed had found a partner; her elder brother and his spouse; out of the corner of her eye she even saw Lord Gimli swaying in the arms of his husband. But she would not remember that until later; for the moment, all of her attention was on Alma's dark eyes, on the feeling as she leaned in closer to Laín’s ear, on her whisper of, "Would you like to come to my chambers?"

Giddy, not daring to believe her fortune, Laín nodded.

* * *

Laín woke up the next morning to a sliver of sunlight and a hissed curse.

"Hmm?" she mumbled, cracking her eyes open and blinking against the light. "What" –

Alma was sitting up in bed beside her, sheets pooled around her waist. Memory of the night before was returning, but Laín did not even have a chance to relish in the sensation – or the sight of Alma bare to the waist – because Alma was glancing around in what looked like panic.

"The sun is up already," she said. "I am meant to report to Lord Gimli within the hour at latest, and I need to wash and dress . . ."

Report to? – ah, yes. The ceremony, Laín remembered. Today, Alma was to be named Lord Gimli's official second and successor.

"I could help you, if you wish," she offered, but her voice faded to a peep by the end of it, her heart sinking as Alma looked over at her as if she had just remembered her presence.

"That is a kind offer, but I had best do this myself," she said. She did give Laín the flash of a smile, but it was distant, already distracted. "I am sorry I cannot ask you to stay for breakfast. But thank you for last night. I enjoyed myself," she winked, "immensely."

"As did I," said Laín faintly. "Did you want – shall I" –

"You may certainly call upon me again if you wish it," said Alma. "Contrary to the reputation I am told I have acquired, I am rarely averse to a bedfellow." She climbed out of bed and went to her wardrobe, not even looking over her shoulder. "But I fear I cannot linger this morning. I thank you again for a very pleasant night."

It was a kind brush-off – as kind as Laín could have hoped for. And she ought to have made her position clear the night before – liaisons of this sort were common enough that Alma could not be blamed for misunderstanding.

Indeed, Laín had no one but herself to blame.

Still, she dressed in a daze, and made her way to her own home on muscle memory alone, barely noticing where she walked.

* * *

For Narin, it began with frustration.

Ah, but she aggravated him beyond all reason, Alma did. She had been maddening since they had begun their work together, with the way she had risen so rapidly in the affections of Lord Gimli, the responsibility she had assumed with a youthful enthusiasm that bordered on infuriating superiority. She had been shouting Narin down since their first project in Gondor – she, fresh from her apprenticeship and already appointed the second in command – and Gimli himself, gone soft and dazed with elvish enchantment, had never spoken against her, not even when she challenged established smiths twice her age.

And yet – there was a spark about her, that confidence and defiance that came with genius. It was, Narin supposed, what made her and Lord Gimli two of a kind – in their boldness, their enthusiasm, their delight in one another’s ideas.

At first, Narin had not known which of them he was jealous of . . . or why.

* * *

They first came together, though, in Aglarond.

He had felt the spark of _something_ since Gondor, since he had first found himself clashing with her, but it was not until two decades later that it grew into anything he could recognize. She was simply too _young_ at first: he had seen her as a child, an upstart apprentice. Half his age, barely out of her majority, he could recognize her as nothing more than a rival he would not have deemed worthy of his attention – except that she was.

But now – she was young yet, perhaps, but a child no more; she had been Lord Gimli’s heir for ten years at least and of course his second for far longer. Her brilliance had expanded from the bright but sporadic flame of youth into a steady blaze; she too had grown steadier, statelier, calmer . . .

That did not mean she shouted any less.

“You are too _dwarvish!_ ” she cried at last, throwing her arms up at Narin’s latest design – one he had redone at her demand, but kept as similar to the original as he possibly could.

He glared. “Of course I am dwarvish!” he retorted. “We are _dwarves_ , daughter of Aldis! It is you who are not dwarvish _enough!_ ”

“Dwarves we may be, but we live in a kingdom of men.” She braced a hand on a hip. “King Eomer will not approve that design, and you ought to know it by now. You are thinking too much like a resident of Erebor, son of Jarin.”

Around them, Narin noticed other dwarves quietly packing their things, trickling out of the smithy. He had noticed it happening more and more often when Alma found something to pick at him about. Especially now, when Lord Gimli was away in Ithilien and not present to check either of them.

“Yes, I am!” he said. “I am honoring our parent kingdom and the traditions of our people. I use familiar designs as an acknowledgment of our past. For all you and Lord Gimli may try to reshape the future to your liking, I see and remember what we have already wrought.”

“You remember it to the exclusion of the new!” she argued. She had drawn closer as they spoke, and now they were practically nose to nose. “You are so taken up in your criticism of our lord’s ‘elvish’ sensibilities that you refuse to see what the other peoples might have to teach us. Your designs from the past will not last for the future we move into, Narin.”

He blinked when she said his name. For some reason, it hit the way his use-name rarely ever did, somewhere in the back of his chest, as it did only in moments when he felt its speaker’s attention wholly focused on him. But he could not dwell on the way it felt; he was losing ground to her, and he forced himself to lean in even closer, deepening his scowl, refusing to show the way she had put him off balance. “I would move into the future as ourselves,” he hissed. Behind him, the smithy door shut as the last dwarf left, but he paid it no mind, determined to recover from his momentary lapse. “As dwarves yet, no matter where we live or whose world we inhabit. And if you would not” –

She kissed him.

He froze at the press of her lips: soft despite the forceful motion, the many braids of her beard and mustache smooth even through the bristle of his own. He could not react at first – had she even meant to do this? Their faces had been so close that only an accidental movement on either of their parts might have brought their lips into contact – but she did not withdraw, rather pressed closer into him, and he could not resist. Alma kissed with the same intensity with which she argued, and once his shock had worn off, Narin seized her head and returned the kiss with equal heat.

She backed him up across the smithy; he paid no attention to what was behind him, too focused on this unexpected surge of sensation – until, that was, his back met the stone wall solidly enough that the breath huffed from his lungs.

That was enough to bring him back to sense; he pulled back and caught her shoulders to keep her back. “What is this?” he said wildly. “Alma. I should not – you are” – He waved a hand to indicate her stature, though it was no less than his own.

“An adult,” she said, her eyes lighting with that familiar spark of defiance. “With will and whims and enough sense to know when to act on them. Do you have objections beyond my age?”

There were many that he could think of: her position; her personality – he did not even _like_ her, for Mahal’s sake –

He kissed her again instead of responding, clutching at her shoulders, fingers catching in the leather straps of her apron. She responded with the same ferocity as before, demanding – challenging –

“I do not like you any better for this,” he said when they broke apart again, though the words came out breathless.

She grinned back at him. “The feeling is mutual. Your chambers or mine?”

* * *

He would not go so far as to call it an arrangement. They never spoke of it outside of their encounters – and those encounters were anything but regular. They might go days, weeks, months without even speaking – and then they would disagree on something, and disagreement would morph into shouting, and either they would frighten the rest of the dwarves out of the forge, or they would simmer quietly and separately until she knocked on the door of his chambers later.

“This will never be love,” she said, plain and straightforward, the first time they came together.

“Good,” was all he responded then. He knew she took other lovers at will just as she had taken him – and he would have done the same himself, had he felt the urge or desire to do so . . . but he had lost the insatiability of youth and was mostly content.

Youth . . . he did think about that sometimes. He was closer to a contemporary of Lord Gimli than to Alma herself, nearly a full generation older. But now that she had passed her seventy-fifth year, there was no true difference in maturity between her and any dwarf his age – except perhaps in the passion and intensity with which she approached everything in life. Sometimes he wondered if he had not been trying to borrow that the whole time, with every fight he picked with her – trying to re-ignite his own passions out of complacency. Clashing with her – whether in argument or in bed – was . . . enlivening. Invigorating.

He found himself picking fights more and more often, in the hopes that he would rile her enough for this.

* * *

He did not want to fall in love with her. He had not yet experienced the elusive concept of _love_ and, truthfully, had no desire to do so. He had witnessed – in their own lord, no less! – the sorts of extremes it could drive one to, the abandoning of a way of life, the submitting to indignities a dwarf ought never even consider. And for all that he, against his own better judgment, had followed Lord Gimli into his whims, he had no desire to experience any such thing for himself.

But love need not be the same as fondness, and despite himself he found that the latter was blooming against his will. He still disagreed with her on most everything; he still found her infuriating – but he wanted this, more frequently than he had in the past: he craved her company in addition to her body. And he began to wonder if there was a stage before love, not the all-consuming soul-capturing feeling that some swore to know, but a place where it might be enjoyable to commit to a person, to choose their company more frequently than that of another.

It was mentioning that to her – breaking their unspoken taboo – that doomed him.

“Oh,” she said, and the weight of reluctance in her voice had his stomach tensing. “Oh, I did not” –

“It demands no response from you,” he said. “We can carry on as we have.”

“I worry we cannot.” She sat up, sweeping her braids over one bare shoulder; the way she turned her head might have been coy had her face not been so serious. “I will never fall in love, Narin; I knew that long ago. And even _fondness_ – from one who does not have the same certainty – holds too much danger for me to entertain the thought in good conscience.”

“You say you are not fond of me?” It was more effort than he had expected to keep his voice light. “And to think, I had thought you might eventually move beyond your loathing.”

She chuckled, small and sad. “I disagree with every opinion you have, Narin.” She sighed and leaned back on her hands. “But yes, I have grown fond of you despite myself. But I will take no risk on this. I dread the thought that a heart might be given into my keeping, and I will do all that it takes to keep it that way.”

She kissed him goodbye when they parted that day – something she rarely did. And after that, no matter how much he might provoke her, she refused even to shout at him.

He had never thought he might miss it.

* * *

When Alma rose from bed to answer the urgent knocking at her door, it was no more than Lars had been warned to expect.

It was no more than anyone would expect, really. No dwarf with respect for himself and others would demand a partner stay abed rather than answer an urgent summons.

When she did not return to bed after, however . . .

Lars gazed up at the low-slanting roof of Alma’s chambers, the delicate arches that she had so clearly designed herself. He did not want to interrupt if she had received an emergency summons, but she was not returning, and it felt too strange to lie alone in another’s bed, even hers. Especially hers.

It was a beautiful room, the brilliance of its architect visible in every slope of the ceiling, every line of the walls, but even her work meant little without her presence, and Lars could not help suddenly feeling like an intruder in both.

* * *

Lars had been gone on Alma since their very first meeting – struck perhaps not with the certainty of a dwarf who had found his only love (he must believe that, especially now – must believe that there was yet hope for him), but with the knowledge that he would do most anything to win her attention.

She had come out to supervise the team of stoneworkers he had just joined, there to expand the gem gardens of Aglarond – and how could he not admire her for that, for the active interest she took in all such projects, even those not directly under her purview? He had been taking a momentary break, laughing with Eiki (the friend who had secured him the position) when Eiki suddenly straightened and seized their chisel. “Look busy,” they hissed, and Lars – not daring to question them – had snatched up his own and turned to his work . . . only to lower it again immediately and stare as the most beautiful dwarf he had ever seen strode into the chamber: stout and confident, a Blacklock with scores of tiny braids and sparkling eyes and a smile that seemed to reflect off the gem walls.

She exchanged a few words with their project leader – complete with expansive hand gestures – and turned her attention to the stoneworkers. Her eyes lingered on Lars, and he felt he was being measured in her gaze.

She said something else to the leader, and then turned and walked decisively towards Lars.

“You are new, I hear?” Her smile even came through in her voice. “I am Alma, daughter of Aldis.” The name sounded familiar, but Lars was too busy staring to wonder why. “At your service.”

“Lars,” he managed to stammer, “ah – son of Billar, at yours and your family’s.”

She smiled at him, and his knees went weak. “Welcome to Aglarond,” she said.

When she released him from the beam of her gaze, it took Lars a moment to remember how to speak. “Who – who was that?”

Eiki shook their head in pity. “Oh, you poor fool,” they said. “That was _the_ Alma, second to Lord Gimli. And if you would have my advice, if you can look elsewhere – do, and save yourself. For she may look sweet as almond tart, but she has eaten alive every dwarf who has tried to court her.”

But as Lars stared after her, all he could think was _what a way to go_.

* * *

In the end, tempting Alma into his bed was nowhere near as difficult as Lars had expected.

He had been testing the boundaries of allowable flirtation for some days, and had not yet been rebuffed. It was as simple as making himself present – finding reasons to ask her questions after meetings, to solicit her opinions even when they were unnecessary to the project at hand. Then he began laying a hand on her arm at each question, letting his gaze linger on hers just a little too long.

His companions all gave him shades of the same pitying look, but when Lars finally worked up the nerve to invite her for a drink after work was finished, she gave him a smile of promise and accepted.

Easier than he had expected. He should have understood that the problems would come after they had already shared a bed.

* * *

“What is it?” asked Lars now.

He had risen from bed and robed himself after Alma had failed to return to him for several minutes. Now he could see he was right to do so, for Alma still stood in her greeting chambers, gazing at the door as though lost in thought about what to do next. “Who was” –

“The lord of Ithilien is in trouble,” said Alma. “Lord Gimli has gone to his side, and charge of the colony is left to me in the meantime.”

“Ah.” Lars shuffled his feet, bare against the cold stone floor. He knew he ought to be concerned, or sympathetic – though he had never met Legolas of Ithilien personally, everyone close to Lord Gimli swore that he was gentler and more generous than any rumor of elvenkind had ever led them to expect. And he certainly wished no heartbreak on their lord. But at the moment he found it hard to concentrate on anything other than the way Alma’s robe gaped around her bare legs, the way the slender braids of her beard had knotted from sleep . . . and the memory of the warm bed they had both vacated.

“Shall we” – he tried, but she had begun speaking at the same time, and seemed not to notice his words.

“I had best go speak to Fundvari,” she said. “Gimli told me to ask his advice, and I think he will have my beard if he wakes up to find Gimli vanished in the night with no word given to him of his absence. And then I ought to check Gimli’s schedule for tomorrow . . .” Her voice drifted off, and she blinked at Lars as though surprised to see him here. “I will need to go,” she said. “You may of course stay out the rest of the night here if you wish; I would not oust you from my chambers in the dead of night, but I fear I will have to leave you alone. Can I trust you among my possessions?” She winked.

Lars forced himself to smile, though inside his heart was sinking, long-held hopes falling slowly like a dropped piece of fabric, threads fluttering in the wind. “I would not impose,” he said. “I will leave with you. Do you think you will want company in your errands?”

She laughed and shook her head. “It is kind of you to offer, but I will get on best alone, I think. All the same, I am sorry for the disruption – and thank you for your time tonight. I enjoyed myself immensely.” She winked at him and then disappeared back into her bedroom to pull on her clothing.

Lars dressed as well, his heart slow and heavy, his mind echoing only with the thought: _it was no more than he should have expected_.

* * *

There were rumors in Aglarond about Alma, rumors Lars had not wanted to believe – but now he could not help but remember them.

 _I will not fall in love_ , she had said to him at the tavern, her hand on his arm. _So long as you understand that, I would happily invite you to my chambers tonight._

It was no less than Eiki had warned him, weeks ago. “She will take bed-partners,” they had said, “but never a true love. And those who try only wind up heartbroken. I would not see you the same.”

A dwarf averse to love was no new thing – Lars had known many in his life – but there were other rumors about Alma, rumors he had not listened to at first. “She will never love because her heart belongs to Lord Gimli,” Mas had whispered to him once. “And because he is wed already, she pines hopelessly and devotes her life to the scraps of his favor she might manage to glean.”

Lars had not listened at the time – too occupied with his own hope and put off by the gleam of malice in Mas’s eyes, he had brushed off her words. But now, stinging from the ease with which he had slipped from Alma’s mind while occupying the same room, he could not help but wonder.

He did not see her again for several days – and the next time she entered to supervise the stoneworkers’ progress, though she did give him the flash of her usual smile, she did not stay after to talk to him.

* * *

A few days after Gimli’s departure, the princess of Eryn Lasgalen arrived at Aglarond with a message for Alma.

Alma had never met Legolas's elder sister before, but her first thought upon being presented to the princess was: _He did not exaggerate_.

She had not doubted him, not exactly, but it seemed impossible for anyone to be all that Legolas professed his sister – clever and wise both, powerful and graceful and deadly, both gentle and decisive – but Laerwen Thranduiliel was all she could have imagined and more. Larger than life, tall and regal – and beautiful in a way Alma would not have been able to recognize in her younger days. But after thirty years of living among men and visiting elves, she had come to appreciate unorthodox beauty. Even in worn traveling clothes, her hair braided severely back, she dazzled.

Even if she had not been announced, Alma would have known immediately that she was royalty.

"Your highness," she said, rising from her seat to greet her with a bow. "Aglarond is honored by your presence."

"And I by such a gracious welcome." The princess bowed in return, as though they were equals. Perhaps by some accounts they were, now that Alma was officially Gimli’s heir – but Aglarond was but a youthful settlement in comparison to such a long-enduring realm as Eryn Lasgalen, and Alma herself an infant beside this hero of both the Second and Third Ages! "You are Lord Gimli's second, are you not? Lady Alma, daughter of Aldis?"

Had she been ten years younger, her knees would have gone weak at the sound of her name in that voice. "I am."

"Then it is you I am here to seek."

 _And it is my fortune more than yours that you have found me._ "Then tell me what you ask of me, and I will do my utmost to see that it is done."

“I ask nothing.” The princess produced a scroll from her waist pouch and presented it to Alma. “I come not as a princess, but as a humble messenger. I bring word from Lord Gimli, for he is not able to return just yet.”

“Is he” – All brief infatuation forgotten, Alma’s heart jumped into her throat. “Is Legolas, I mean” – But no, Legolas’s sister would surely not look so calm if something terrible had befallen him –

“He is as well as can be expected,” the princess said. “He suffers from an unexpected worsening of sea-longing and will need Gimli by his side a while longer. But your concern does you credit, Lady Alma.”

“It is no credit to me, only to Legolas,” Alma said. “He is – I would not presume, but he has come to feel like family to me.”

The princess smiled. “I see it is not only Lord Gimli, but also his heir with a silver tongue.” The thought of tongues was enough to send all manner of contraband thoughts jolting through Alma’s mind, but she controlled herself with the discipline Gimli had taught her. “Legolas does have that effect, and your care for him warms my heart.”

“Well.” Alma’s cheeks warmed. “I thank you for your generous praise. May we offer you lodging for the night, Princess Laerwen?”

“A kind offer, but no. I will ride a ways longer today.” Legolas’s sister bowed again, a hand to her heart. “I wish you all the best, Lady Alma.”

Alma tracked her with her eyes as she swept out the door, and then sighed happily once she was sure she was alone. Those few minutes would be fine fuel for some very pleasant thoughts indeed.

* * *

When Gimli returned to Aglarond a few weeks later, he was not alone.

“Legolas!” Alma exclaimed when they knocked on her door, rising with haste to fetch extra chairs for them. The lord of Ithilien looked terrible – fragile and wasted, as though he might blow away in a strong wind. He leaned on Gimli when they walked, seeming to need the support. It had been one thing to read that he was unwell; seeing the extent of it in person was quite another.

He gave her a weak smile. “Greetings, Alma. I am glad to see you.”

“It seems you have not collapsed the colony entirely in my absence,” was Gimli’s greeting, tossed over his shoulder as he helped Legolas into a chair. “I suppose my choice of second was not wholly misplaced, then.”

Alma scowled at him. “And greetings to you as well, _my lord_.”

He laughed and drew her into a quick one-armed embrace before settling in beside Legolas, his hand on his husband’s knee. “My message arrived with no issue, then, I take it?”

“That it did.” Alma smiled, remembering. “And I understand now why you have so much to say of your sister, Legolas. She is quite . . . impressive.”

Gimli raised his eyebrows, but Legolas only smiled, small and wan. “That she is – but I fear even you would have poor luck with her, Alma. She is spoken for, though her wife is long away . . . sailed over the endless sea . . .” His voice drifted off.

“Legolas,” Gimli said sharply.

Legolas blinked, his eyes clearing. For a moment his face was haggard: a collection of crumpled lines and haunted eyes, and then he forced another smile. “Forgive me. I merely meant – we elves do not approach matters of love in the same way as dwarves. Bed-play occurs only between wedded couples. I fear you would be ill-content with such a match.”

“Indeed I would,” said Alma stoutly. This was not new information, but still she could not help a slight startle of distaste every time she was reminded of elvish ways. She might have devotions greater than any lover, but the thought of renouncing bedsport entirely was hardly appealing. “Anyway, I have no designs on your sister. But all the same, it seems to me that we dwarves are much more sensible in affairs of the heart.”

“Perhaps,” said Legolas. “But there are times when elvish and dwarvish ways can come together in perfect synchronicity.” His hand came to rest over Gimli’s on his leg, and the two of them shared a smile that was _utterly_ too filled with feeling for Alma’s tolerance.

“Oh, go away, both of you,” she said, flapping a hand at them. “Come visit me again when you are fit for company.”

Legolas laughed and rose from his chair, bracing himself on Gimli’s shoulder – but he leaned in to give Alma a quick embrace. “I am glad to see you,” he said, with a strange weight behind his words that Alma did not entirely understand.

Gimli sighed at Legolas’s words, perhaps hearing something in them that had escaped Alma, but he too squeezed her shoulders once more before leaving. “Thank you for watching over Aglarond in my absence,” he said. “Truly, I could have designated no better steward than you, and it gives me comfort to know that it will always be safe in your hands.”

Alma laughed at his sentimentality as she waved them out, but she could not help grinning to herself once he had left, gazing around at her chambers and sending her thoughts radiating outward, calling up all the halls and corridors of Aglarond in perfect detail in her mind. Her home, her colony, her masterpiece as much as Gimli’s own.

And who could ask for a greater love than that?


End file.
